Some lovely Klaine angst – based on 'I Need You Now' by Lady Antebellum because it's been stuck in my head for a week.
Kurt's at home. Well, it's not really home yet, but he's at his new apartment, wondering why he's doing this to himself, until he remembers it's because he's nothing if not a masochistic bastard. He looks around at the scattered photo albums, wincing every time he catches a glimpse of bright hazel eyes, crinkling at the corners, a mop of messy black curls, a smile so wide it splits his face in half, which is funny really, because pretty much every single photograph makes him flinch. His hand reaches out, unasked, clutching at the phone. He forces himself to drop it for the twelfth time that night and wonders what Blaine's doing for the nineteenth. He thinks his name for the fifty-third time that night, but it doesn't hurt any less.
*o*o*
Blaine's sitting on the floor, drinking. He briefly considers pouring himself another shot of whisky, but ends up just grabbing the bottle with clumsy, too-thick fingers, tipping it back, relishing in how it sets fire to his insides, but cursing how it doesn't make him forget. He looks at the door for the twenty-sixth time that night and slams his palm down on the granite top for the thirty-first when it doesn't move. He can picture him, so vividly that his drunken mind almost thinks it's real, sweeping in through the door like he's done countless times before. He forces himself to look away for the twelfth time that night and wonders what Kurt's doing for the nineteenth. He thinks his name for the fifty-third time that night, but it doesn't hurt any less.
*o*o*
Kurt glances at the clock, back to the phone. No, it's too late, he'll be asleep, he tells himself, but he hopes he's not, he hopes he's awake, staring at the phone too. He dials the number without even thinking, pressing the phone to his ear, finger poised over the end button and listens. I'm sorry, but the number you are trying to reach is busy. Please try again or leave a message after the tone.
"Blaine, I- I know I said I wouldn't call, I just- I lost control and- I'm sorry, Blaine, I just- I need you now-" and he sighs when the beep cuts him off, not even bothering to hide or try and stop the tears from spilling down his face because, hey, who's going to see?
*o*o*
Blaine blinks blearily at the flashing numbers on the oven, trying to discern the time. It's late. Too late to call. But his inebriated mind tells himself that he's probably up too, so he lunges for his phone, dialling the all-too-familiar number wrong a few times with his clumsy fingers, pressing the phone to his ear, finger poised over the end button, and listens. I'm sorry, but the number you are trying to reach is busy. Please try again or leave a message after the tone. "Kurt, I- I know I said I wouldn't call, I just- I'm a little drunk and- I'm sorry, Kurt, I just- I need you now-" and he throws the phone to the floor when the beep cuts him off, grabbing the bottle, not even bothering to tell himself he shouldn't because, hey, who's going to know?
*o*o*
It's hours and a fitful not-really sleep later that Kurt notices his phone flashing. You have one voicemail, received today at one fifteen a.m. "Kurt, I-" He hangs up.
*o*o*
It's the whole night, half the following day and too many aspirins later that Blaine notices his phone, half smashed, but still flashing at him. You have one voicemail, received today at one fifteen a.m. "Blaine, I-" He throws the phone across the room, not even flinching as it shatters against the wall.
*o*o*
I was tired and a little crazy, Kurt says to himself, and he was probably drunk. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't change that I still need you.
*o*o*
I was drunk as fuck, Blaine says to himself, and he was probably just tired. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't change that I still need you.
Um, sorry? Yeah… thoughts?